by Lin Oliver
As the Hoove continued to hit the ball against the wall, Billy noticed that he had great reflexes and never missed a shot. He kept hitting the ball in a perfect rhythm for what seemed like forever.
“That sound is driving me bananas,” Billy said after a while. “Can you give it a rest?”
“Sorry, Billy Boy, I’m in the zone.”
“Fine, I’ll just leave. After all, it’s only my room.”
“Correction. Our room.”
“I’m going to the kitchen to make some tuna fish for my lunch tomorrow. Try to wrap up your game by the time I get back.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
“What now? Tuna fish isn’t cool?”
“No matter how you cut it, tuna fish in a brown bag is going to smell. Your breath is going to reek like a three-day-old sardine. And let me point out that fresh sardines don’t smell so great to begin with.”
“So then what do you suggest I eat?”
“Listen up to the Hoove’s Rule Number One Hundred Thirteen. You might want to write this down. Acceptable sandwiches include: (1) peanut butter and jelly, but you have to chew slowly. You don’t want your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth. (2) cheese except for Liederkranz, which has the same odor problem as tuna fish, and (3) certain Italian cold cuts, but be careful with mortadella because it makes you belch.”
“Maybe I’ll just buy my lunch,” Billy said.
“I support that idea.”
Billy suddenly grew quiet and a worried look flickered across his face.
“What now?” Hoover said. “Don’t tell me the loss of a tuna sandwich is going to make you cry?”
“I was just thinking that I hope I don’t have to eat alone.”
For the first time, the Hoove felt a twinge of sympathy for this kid. No one, dead or alive, wants to eat alone on their first day at a new school.
“You won’t have to eat alone,” the Hoove said, “because I’m going to help you out here. Now, it all depends on how you enter the cafeteria. You want to be friendly, but not desperate. You’re going to want to keep that Broccoli smile to a minimum. You smile so wide, radio waves bounce off your teeth.”
Billy thought the Hoove actually had a point. He had spent the last eight years observing all the popular kids at his old school, and they had an easy way about them. No matter what was going on, they looked like nothing bothered them. When Billy struck out at baseball, he would go into his “strike-out slouch” and slither off into the dugout, dragging his bat behind him. But when Adam Fox, the most popular kid in his grade, struck out, he’d just glare back at the mound, as if the pitcher had done something wrong. It was all about attitude.
“So,” the Hoove went on, “I want you to show me how you’re going to enter the cafeteria. Go out in the hall and come in with some of that Porterhouse swagger.”
Billy picked up a world atlas from his desk and held it as if it were a tray. He went out into the hall and closed the door, where he encountered his stepfather, who was hanging some family photos on the wall.
“Excellent choice of reading material,” Bennett said, noticing that Billy was carrying the atlas. “When I was your age, I could name the fifty longest rivers of the world in alphabetical order just from studying the atlas. Something to strive for, son.”
“I’m going to get right on it, Bennett.”
Billy quickly turned back to his bedroom door. He paused a moment to concentrate on being confident, then entered the room with his shoulders back and chin held high. Unfortunately, his chin was held so high that he didn’t see his backpack lying on the rug in front of him and he promptly tripped and hit the floor with a thump.
The Hoove attempted not to laugh. This kid was trying hard. It wasn’t his fault that he was hopeless. Besides, Hoover never knew when the Higher-Ups were watching. Making fun of a worried kid who tripped over his own backpack would certainly not raise his grade in Helping Others. But he couldn’t stop himself. Watching Billy flail on the ground, trying to scamper to his feet while maintaining his cool was truly funny. He let loose a tremendous laugh that echoed like a hollow screech on a Halloween sound-effects CD.
Billy was fuming mad.
“I’m trying my best here, man. And what I don’t need is anybody laughing at me. I’m so nervous already that my armpits are practically squirting sweat and I haven’t even left my room yet.”
The Hoove stopped laughing. He heard the nervousness in Billy’s voice, and he remembered how he felt on his first day of junior high. It had been ninety-nine years since he’d thought of that day, but when he let the memory in, he suddenly felt how hard it was to be eleven going on twelve. He drifted over to Billy and put his ghostly hand on his shoulder. Billy shivered and moved away. He was still angry about being laughed at.
“I don’t need your sympathy,” he said. “I can manage.”
As Billy got to his feet, the Hoove reached out and took a baseball hat from the bed and popped it on Billy’s head, giving it a jaunty twist to the side.
“Tell you what, sport,” he said in his kindest voice. “Maybe I’ve given you too many rules for one day. So forget everything I said. Be yourself tomorrow, and you’ll be great. Just do me one favor. DON’T TRIP.”
That sounded easy enough, but Billy was so nervous, he wasn’t even sure he could do that.
CHAPTER 6
The next morning, as Billy approached the main brick building of Moorepark Middle School, wearing his dark green T-shirt and jeans that were appropriately low on his waist, only one thought rolled around and around in his head.
“I will not trip,” he thought. “Trip, I will not. This is me, not tripping. Never shall I trip.”
Clusters of unfamiliar students stood around the flagpole, sat on the steps, and hung out by the front door. Billy felt as if everyone was staring at him, judging him, checking out every detail about him. He wondered what they were thinking, if he measured up. He hoped that someone — anyone — would come up and say hello, or even toss him a welcoming nod. Just a crumb to make him feel like he belonged.
The Hoove had given him some tips on how to make a good first impression. “Just walk by, give them a confident nod, and snap your suspenders with both thumbs. Nothing says confidence like a suspender snap.”
But of course that wasn’t possible. Neither Billy nor anyone he had ever known wore suspenders. The Hoove had volunteered to get up early to check Billy out before he left, but when he found out that school started at seven forty-five in the morning, he announced to Billy that he didn’t do mornings.
“Mornings are for roosters,” he’d said. “And I do not cock-a-doodle-do.”
Billy adjusted his backpack, shoved his hands into his pockets, and stepped onto the school grounds. So far, so good. He walked up the concrete path, and when he reached the front steps, he noticed that a group of girls wearing navy blue school warm-ups seemed to be staring at him. He thought they were probably the cross-country team, and to show them how agile he was, he took the steps two at a time, putting a little bounce into each leap.
That was his first mistake.
The second was falling facedown on the brick landing, just in front of the main entrance to school.
“I will not trip,” he muttered to himself. “Change of plans. I just did.”
He was more embarrassed than hurt. He couldn’t bring himself to turn his head to see if the cross-country girls were laughing at him. As he looked up, a hand reached out to help him. Thank goodness, there was one kind person in this school.
“Hey, Broccoli, great three-point landing. Let me help you up.”
It was Rod Brownstone, doing an unusually neighborly thing.
“Thanks, Rod,” Billy said, reaching out to grab Rod’s hand. But Rod quickly withdrew his hand and left Billy lying on the ground, grasping at air.
“Just kidding, twinkle toes,” Rod said. “But don’t worry. I see two people who aren’t laughing at you. Oh, wait, I’m wrong. They’re laughing, too.”
Billy wanted the ground to open so he could fall through and disappear. If he could, he would have stayed there, facedown on the bricks, for the rest of the semester. How could this be the first impression he was making at his new school? Was he doomed to be a dork forever?
“Dude, they’re going to charge you rent if you just keep lying there.”
Billy looked up to see a large sixth grader, tall and muscular, looking down at him. The kid was wearing a Los Angeles Angels cap with a shock of thick black hair sticking out from under it. He extended his hand. Billy looked at him suspiciously, not knowing if this kid was going to pull a Rod Brownstone on him. But he didn’t. The kid grabbed Billy’s hand and, with one strong jerk, pulled him up to his feet.
“You going to need a stretcher?” he asked with a laugh.
“I’m okay,” Billy answered. “Nothing that moving to another country can’t cure.”
“Ricardo Perez,” the kid said.
“Billy Broccoli.”
Billy waited for Ricardo to make fun of his name and say something like “Oh, I know your sister, Cheese Sauce” like most people did. But all Ricardo said was “Try keeping both feet on the pavement, dude. It makes walking easier.”
Billy picked up his backpack, brushed off his dust-covered T-shirt, and walked through the front entrance. His hands stung where he’d scraped them on the brick, but there was nothing to do about that now except pretend that everything was fine. Just fine.
“Are you okay, honey?”
Oh, no. It was his mother! Billy turned bright red with embarrassment as she came running out from the principal’s office and took both of his hands in hers.
“I saw you trip from my office window,” she said. “Let’s get you to the nurse’s office and clean those scrapes. She has something that doesn’t sting.”
Billy looked around the hall and noticed that the girls from the cross-country team were standing at their lockers, watching him. They looked surprised to see their principal holding hands with a student.
“Oh,” Mrs. Broccoli-Fielding laughed. “It’s okay, girls. He’s my son. Billy, have you met Ruby Baker and Tess Wu and Ava Daley … the pride of our cross-country team?”
Standing there holding hands with his mom, Billy thought of the Hoove and how horrified he would be by this pathetic scene.
“Mom,” he whispered. “Now is not a good time to make new friends and influence people.”
“Don’t be silly, honey,” his mom said. “People fall down all the time, don’t they, girls?”
Two of the girls, the ones named Ava and Tess, just laughed. But the girl with the blond ponytail — Ruby Baker — gave Billy an understanding smile.
“I’m a total klutz, too,” she said. “In fact, last week I fell so hard during a meet that some of the track is permanently embedded in my knee.”
“I know the feeling,” Billy answered. “At my old school, I had a sliding accident at baseball practice. I’ve still got first base imprinted on my butt.”
Ruby just stared at him.
Why am I discussing my backside with this girl I’ve just met? Billy thought. Immediately, he wished he could take back his words. But that was the trouble with words. Once they were out there, they just hung in the air forever.
With as much dignity as he could muster, Billy removed his hands from his mother’s grasp, nodded at the girls, and headed down the hall to his homeroom. The first person he saw when he entered his classroom was none other than Rod Brownstone. And just Billy’s luck, the only seat available was next to him.
“Take a seat,” Mr. De Luca said. As Billy slid into his desk, he noticed Rod Brownstone staring him in the face.
“Hey, Broccoli,” he said. “If you don’t mind me calling you that …”
“Would it make any difference if I did?”
“Nope. So, Broccoli, tell me something. How come you talk to yourself in your room at night?”
“I don’t know what you’re referring to, Rod.”
“I’m referring to last night, when I just happened to look through your window and saw you marching around your room, having a full conversation with yourself.”
“What, are you spying on me?”
“I’m not spying. I’m gathering information. I’m the neighborhood watch, didn’t you know?”
“Really? Who appointed you?”
“I appointed myself. Somebody’s got to step up and keep track of the comings and goings on our street. You never know when there could be a 406 in progress.”
“I can’t wait for you to tell me what that is.”
“Police code for breaking and entering,” Rod snapped.
“Well, for your information, there was no 406 in progress in my room. Just a 282.”
“Very funny, Broccoli. That number’s not even in the code book.”
“Yes, it is. It’s in mine. It’s code for mind your own business.”
“Minding your business is my business,” Rod whispered, getting his big, doughy face right up in Billy’s. “I’m a citizen who takes the law very seriously. I bet you didn’t know that, just last week, I reported someone on our block for a 586. The police were there in two and a half minutes and took corrective action.”
“Okay, I give up, Brownstone. What’s a 586?”
“Illegal parking. Dark green Volkswagen hatchback.”
Billy couldn’t believe it. That was his grandmother’s car.
“So you were the one who turned in my grandma?” he said.
“Had to, Broccoli. Her rear bumper was two fingers in the red.”
“What a jerky thing to do, Brownstone. She came all the way from Santa Monica to let the gas man in. And then she had to spend the rest of the day getting her car out of the tow lot, thanks to you. And that’s not to mention the three hundred dollars it cost her.”
Rod pretended he was playing the violin. “You’re making me weep, Broccoli. And now you’re starting to annoy me. This conversation is over.”
That was fine with Billy. Seconds later, the bell rang and Mr. De Luca called him to the front of the class to introduce himself and say a few words about his hobbies and interests. As Billy got up from his seat, the last thing he heard was Rod Brownstone whispering to him, “Remember this, Broccoli. I’m watching you.”
Just to prove that he was a total, unmistakable, humongous jerk, Rod stuck out his foot as Billy passed by him, sending Billy stumbling down the row until he finally landed in a heap on the floor, right next to the desk occupied by Ruby Baker.
Billy looked up at her, and with the most confident, Hoove-inspired smile he could muster, said, “Nice to see you again.”
CHAPTER 7
Hoover Porterhouse sat high up in the Birthday Tree, waiting for Billy to return from his first day of school. He liked to sit on the top branch so he could survey the comings and goings in the neighborhood. Rod Brownstone had arrived home from school an hour earlier, taken his backpack into the house, and returned to the backyard with a shortwave radio on which he was following the local police report. It was a slow afternoon for Rod since no one in the neighborhood had been arrested or had even double-parked. Rod’s little sister, Amber, stood on the seat of a swing that hung from the apricot tree in their backyard. She was trying to learn how to swing standing up, even though her mother had told her not to do that.
Over at the Broccoli-Fielding house, Breeze was busy in the basement, auditioning girls to replace the bass player in her band, the Dark Cloud. The thumping sounds of five girls playing the bass all at once streamed out of the basement window and hung in the air around the Hoove’s tree. He covered his ears to block out the sound, but it didn’t do any good because his hands had no matter to them. That’s the way it was with ghost hands. They just didn’t matter.
Dr. Fielding had come home early and was getting the barbeque ready for the flank steak that was marinating in the kitchen. Mrs. Broccoli-Fielding sat at the picnic table outside and kept her husband company while she looked over
the day’s attendance records.
The only person not in evidence was Billy. The Hoove wondered what had happened to the kid. Whatever it was, he had a feeling it wasn’t good. He scanned the horizon in all directions, but all he could see was Mrs. Pearson riding on her electric lawn mower around her corner lot. Her rear didn’t quite fit on the seat. Mrs. Pearson must enjoy her own cooking, he thought.
Then something caught his eye. Someone was darting from tree to tree, from parked car to parked car, like a squirrel being chased by the neighborhood dog. But squirrels didn’t wear dark green T-shirts or sweatshirts with the hood pulled up around their heads.
It was Billy Broccoli, hiding so that he could avoid a human encounter of any kind. The day had been rough for him, and he didn’t want to embarrass himself one more time. He had reached the bottom of his embarrassment well and realized it was dry as a bone. Seeing that no one was on the street, he slipped out from behind the sycamore and made a run for the house. He didn’t like what he saw. All he wanted was to be alone, to slip into his room, close the door, and end the day. But instead, it seemed like everyone he knew was outside waiting to greet him.
“Howdy, son,” Dr. Fielding said, wiping a smudge of grill grease off his forehead. “Have a seat and tell us all about your first day. Don’t skip one detail.”
“Thanks, Bennett, but I’ve got some important business to take care of.” And then, lowering his voice to a whisper, Billy added, “You know … the men’s room.”
“Oh, gotcha,” Bennett whispered back. “When a man’s gotta go, a man’s gotta go.”
Bennett held up his hand for a high five, and Billy wondered what was possibly so bonding about sharing that he had to pee. But Bennett was a nice man, and Billy returned his high five before hurrying into the house.
His eyes were so focused on the door to his room that he didn’t notice the girl walking up the stairs from the basement until he ran smack into her.
“Oh, sorry,” he started to say, until he realized it was Ruby Baker, the girl with the bouncing blond ponytail who had witnessed not one, but two of the most embarrassing moments of his entire life. Billy realized that this was a perfect opportunity to create a different impression on her, and he racked his brain for something to say. Ruby beat him to it.
